


The Last Letter

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Day 1, F/M, Jealousy, Jonsa Countdown, Reunion, dreams for season 7 that will never come true, sexually tense arguments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:20:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: "And you've been avoiding me.""Why would you say something like that?""Because you leave the room whenever I enter it. Because this is the longest we've spoken in the fortnight I've been back. Because you won't look at me."





	The Last Letter

Sansa hears them trying to whisper outside her chamber. Jon and Arya share many wonderful attributes. Subtlety is not one of them. But, Sansa reflects, she's really in no fit state to judge, because the moment she hears them, she treads over and presses her ear to the door to listen more clearly.

"I don't think this is a good idea." Jon's low northern timbre makes Sansa lean closer to the barrier between them. 

In reply, Arya's voice is so fierce, so insistent: "Don't  _think,_ Jon! You're being stupid and you should just _listen_ to me and go in there and _talk_ to her!" If Sansa goes by the scuffling sounds, she would say her little sister is now shoving her resisting cousin toward the chamber door, and Arya seems to be winning. Sansa's heart quickly beats to the tempo of the heavy approaching footsteps. She walks away from the door on weak legs and positions herself by the window, overlooking the courtyard of Winterfell. She hopes she appears untouchably regal, though she feels anything but. She might faint. 

"Hello, Sansa."

Her fingers curl around the ledge of the window, so tight she's certain she'll leave an imprint in the age-old stone. "Lord Targaryen."

"Sansa...." He sounds just as pained as he did those times when they would argue back in the autumn. They were so uncertain then, living rootless, the last two Starks, plotting to take back Winterfell. And now they're here, they're home, reunited with Arya and Bran, and why would it be anything but agony for Jon to speak with her now? Why did Sansa delude herself to expect anything different?

He asks, "Did you receive my last letter?"

"No. I burned it." 

"And you've been avoiding me."

"Why would you say something like that?"

"Because you leave the room whenever I enter it. Because this is the longest we've spoken in the fortnight I've been back. Because you won't look at me."

How dare he make himself out to be the victim here, when, when he was the one who- Sansa forces herself to breathe. She sees a figure pass by below, shadowed by an impressive retinue. Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, the Unburnt, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Gods, by the time she's done reciting her titles, the Others could have breached the Wall already. 

"Why?" Jon asks. "I know you always thought less of me, growing up. I know I was an insult to your lady mother's dignity, and that she had a great influence on your opinions. But I thought we had moved past that, especially after the truth about my birth came out-"

"Do you really think so little of me?" Damn her voice for sounding so ragged and plaintive. "Do you really believe I could be so petty?"

"What am I supposed to think?" Now Jon no longer sounds careful, tiptoeing round her sharp edges. He has sharp edges of his own. He's angry, full of fire and blood. 

Sansa decides to be honest. It's a surprisingly thrilling sensation, almost like the glass of the window she stands before suddenly gave way, and she's plunging down like her wings have been cut when she admits, "Yes, I'm not happy with you, Jon."

"Well, considering I'm about to leave and go fight against the end of the world as we know it tomorrow, could you enlighten me as to why? What have I done to displease you so? Tell me, Sansa. You owe me that, at least."

Is he really so blind to the implications of his own actions, or is he just senseless? "I owe  _you_? It's the other way around, Jon."

"What do I owe you, then?"

"The north."

"Really, Sansa? Is this all because the northern lords chose to crown me instead of you? You said- you said you didn't mind! You said you considered me a true Stark!" Jon falters on that last word. The old wound torn open again. Part of Sansa weeps for the mist-eyed bastard who grew up with the world just out of reach, but that doesn't mean she thaws outwardly. That little boy's not the same as the prince she now refuses to face.

"Except you're not a Stark, are you? You're a  _Targaryen._ You were perfectly happy to throw away the north when it suited you!"

"Is this about kneeling to Daenerys?"

"Yes, that's _exactly_ what this is about! Robb  _died_ for northern independence. Does that mean anything to you? Did you consider that at all when you bowed down to southern tyranny once again? When you climbed onto the back of a dragon?"

"Robb died because of a broken promise, in the end," Jon dismisses. "And I remember once not too long ago you were  _perfectly happy_ to pursue southern ambitions yourself, Sansa!"

Unbidden, she remembers the heat of King's Landing. The air there was hot as blood fresh from the vein. She could never sleep, those nights on silk sheets, picturing Grey Wind's head sewn on her brother's shoulders. "Don't... don't mention that. You have no idea."

Jon acquiesces. "I'm sorry. That was unfair." She stays silent, and for once it's not to prove a point to him. She's years and miles away. "Sansa, I'm sorry."

"But not for kneeling. You're not sorry for that."

"No, I'm not. I did what I had to do. This war about more than north or south."

"You could have at least written. You could have mentioned it to me in one of your precious letters. You might have gone so far as to consult me about the fate of  _our_ kingdom!" When he chooses not to reply, this time, she goes on to accuse, "Tell me, did you swear your allegiance kneeling between her legs?" The little girl inside Sansa, the one who embroidered her heart on her sleeve and longed to go south as Jon so pointedly reminded her, the one who had never left Winterfell, shudders at such vulgarity. When did she become so cruel? 

"How can you say anything to me when you let Petyr Baelish touch you?"

Jon's retort leaves Sansa so flummoxed that all she can do is echo his earlier words. "I did what I had to do."

"Did you have to, though? Or did you enjoy it- being Lady of Winterfell and the Vale and the Riverlands and nearly the entire fucking seven kingdoms? If we're turning words against each other, then you said yourself that only a fool would trust Littlefinger. Yet I'm in the south dealing with Lannisters and queens who threaten to burn me alive and all that fucking heat down there and I hear word that you're to marry Petyr Baelish, of all people, the man directly responsible for our- for your father's death. Why didn't you mention that in a letter?"

"He was trying to kill Bran!"  _Don't let yourself cry, you're the Lady of Winterfell, your skin is steel, you're a wolf._

"He was what?"

"Oh, Jon, you must know he could never let a trueborn son of Ned Stark live. Especially not one with Bran's... uncanny abilities. I could see it coming, and all I could think to bargain with was myself. What was my hand in marriage compared to my brother's life? What would you have done, in my position?" Sansa remembers Rickon's battered corpse, all of those brutal arrows sticking out of him like he was some beast. She couldn't have allowed that to happen again. She would have given her own life, if need be. "Besides, I killed him, in the end. I won."

Jon didn't say goodbye. Sansa waited until she heard him shut the door- gently, so gently it was worse than a slam. As if he thought she might break. Then she began to slide down the wall to her knees, out of sight of the window. It wouldn't do for the people to see the lady of the keep crying like a babe.  _You didn't need to be so cruel to him._ But she had to keep him away.  _You might have told him the truth._ But he loved Daenerys.  _He's leaving tomorrow. He could die._ Oh, gentle Mother, the old gods, whoever was might heed her-

The door opened again. This time like a tremendous gust of wind were behind it, it was so sudden and strong. Sansa barely had time to prepare herself to deal with whoever would presume not to announce their presence-

Jon. Again.

"Sansa, before you get angry, I need to tell you. You need to know. I could die tomorrow, the day after, it doesn't matter. I don't want to die with you so infuriated with me. So here's the truth: I regret what I did with Daenerys. It was only once. Which is unforgivable. I'm not asking you to forgive. But I did it because I had heard you were going to marry Littlefinger, and I was so distraught that I pretended she was you. I explained this all in my last letter- Gods, it took me days to write the damn thing. Everything didn't sound good enough. I didn't want you to hear from Tormund or Brienne or Littlefinger, but I guess I was too late. You did anyway. I'm sorry."

Sansa turned to look at him- her half-brother turned protector turned king turned cousin turned love, home at last. 

 


End file.
